The Reality Of The Situation Here
by Eye of the Kaleidoscope
Summary: Dumbledore huffed with impatience, My dear boy, is it so hard to understand? You get high on crack, you sell crack, you have sex for crack, by all means, you may as well be crack at the rate you're going.
1. Snape Bitch Slaps Harry Potter

Disclaimer - (Basically, because JK Rowling would probably jump at the chance to sue me if she read even a fraction of this story-thing-whatever-the-hell-it-is) I do not own Harry Potter or any of the (supposedly) 'magical' crap which revolves around him including locations, other characters/creatures, items, plot-holes, etc. . I do not want to. If I did, all of this would have been published, and I would not have any plot-holes, and, yes, Sirius would not have been killed by curtains, Fred would not have been killed by a wall and Remus and Tonks and Moody would not have died (although, as far as I'm concerned, they're not dead if she didn't give them 'death-scenes'. They could be in the forest with the centaurs, God knows — or — or . . . in a hotel . . . doing crack-deals or having sexual encounters with houseplants).

Note - Basically, this was a spur-of-the-moment thing during which I ranted on AIM to one of my few friends about how everyone (all of my favorite characters) died because of Harry Potter. And I exclaimed, vehemently, how he should have had a_ Decent Plan B_, how he usually has a Plan A but then something . . . _somehow _. . . goes horribly wrong and people die. And I said "It's like he doesn't think it through, like his mind's elsewhere for part two of the planning part, how he insists this shit won't happen and then it does and it's like . . . whoops, sorry you died."

And the part I mentioned with how his 'mind's somewhere else'? That's what led to the drug-addictions and the crack-whores, and the pimps (namely Lucius, which is rather obvious) and the smugglers and the money-laundering in the basement of number 12 Grimmauld Place. . . .

And, truth be told, if you actually 'read-between-the-lines' in every Harry Potter book, you will actually begin to see how my story makes _sense_.

Chapter One

In Which Severus Snape Attempted To Bitch-Slap Some Sense Into Harry Potter

Day One

The clock in the corner glares behind the cage of cold metal bars that surround it from its perch so high above the door, and the black dashes of hands seem fixed on the twelve, and have been for the past hour and a half, as far as he can tell. He's not sure, really, how long the clock's been like that or how long he's been confined to the stark-white sheeted bed he's currently laying in, because the last thing he remembers is being in the Great Hall after battling Voldemort face-to-face. He remembers mostly faceless bodies amidst flashes of green and red light, and horror rushing through his system.

His limbs are too heavy to move, his head pounding and his eyes seem to be burning, his entire body reduced to feeling only a dull, throbbing pain. His thoughts are merely fleeting whispers as the door opens and his eyes meet the sallow face of Severus Snape who appears to be pushing Dumbledore in a wheelchair while simultaneously attempting to keep the heavy door open as he does so.

And it strikes him as odd, and something more, but the edges of his perception are blurred, his thoughts slurred in his head.

They should be dead and he must be seeing things. He must be sleeping, dreaming — _something_.

Snape positions Dumbledore to the right of him and then moves to drag a chair from the edge of the room— funny, he hadn't noticed it there before— to the left side of his bed. Dumbledore is the first to speak, and he barely registers his sharp, yet tired voice ringing in his ears.

Addressing Snape, "Did they mention which medication he is on?" Snape makes some sort of absurd gesture with his hand and then glares at the wall as Dumbledore nods in understanding. The bearded man turns to him, "Harry, how are you feeling?"

He is struck with the possibility that this entire scene might be — just has to be — a hallucination.

He's vaguely aware of his own voice croaking, "Tired." He clears his throat, barely lifts his head from the pile of pillows. "Where . . . where am I?"

Dumbledore and Snape exchange a brief glance, an unreadable look. Dumbledore says, "The doctors," here he pauses, making eye-contact, "they say you may be far too tired to process much, but, if you are willing to try, I believe I can sufficiently explain to you everything that has happened in your absence, Harry. Are you willing to try?"

Harry shot him a perplexed look. He remembered everything perfectly, so what was the problem?

Dumbledore sighed.

"Severus?" Snape procured a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Harry noted that this was, perhaps, the only time he had ever seen the two men before him donning any sort of muggle clothing. He watched as Dumbledore withdrew a cigarette from the pack, handed the pack back to Snape, and then took out a lighter from his breast pocket to light it. He inhaled deeply, and, turning to Harry, began what Harry knew would most likely be a very long monologue.

"You are in rehab, Harry." He paused, tugging at a strand of white beard. "I know it is very shocking, but, it is very true all the same."

"Rehab?" Harry choked. "As in— _me_— _drugs_?"

"Quite right, Harry," he gestured vaguely at nothing and ashes flew in several directions.

"But— I— how?"

Those twinkling eyes regarded him with some sort of form of humor as he said, "Harry, you have a problem. A serious problem. A deadly addiction. Have you noticed the absence of color in this very room? They do not want you to think of drugs at the moment. Why, do you even remember arriving here?" He raised an eyebrow at Harry, who shook his head slowly. "Alas, you nearly left us that very night. Shame I was not around, although I doubt I could have been of any help . . . I would have enjoyed the show, however."

"But, I was— is Voldemort still dead?"

"Voldemort?" Dumbledore's eyebrows knitted together. "Oh, you mean Tom." He sighed. "No, no. Far worse, I am afraid, but I shall explain later."

"Wait, he's not— dead?" He was vaguely aware of his voice increasing in volume but found he did not care. "You mean I— He— all those people who died! And you should be dead too and— and— I saw both of you _die_, both of you!" His voice wavered and he fell back against the pillows. "And . . . I . . . there's no way— I've never even seen drugs in my life, so, how . . . ?"

Dumbledore huffed with impatience, "My dear boy, is it so hard to comprehend? You get high on crack, you sell crack, you have sex for crack, by all means, you may as well be crack at the rate you're going."

Harry still processed none of this, bewildered further more by the mentioning of illegal drugs— used by him, of all people— and of him having sex. "I had— who did I shag for drugs?"

Snape snorted, and Dumbledore went on with an air of casualness that made Harry uneasy, "Why, just about everyone on the school grounds— boy, girl, teacher, animal. In fact, I believe I once walked in on you shagging the daylights out of a suit of armor, but, alas, we all have our moments, be they awkward or desperate or very romantic."

Harry opened his mouth to say something but Dumbledore plowed on further. "I, certainly, was no innocent adolescent, as Severus can recall from that one meeting at Grimmauld Place back in November nearly three years ago." He winked at Snape, who scowled in return. "Well, to put it quite simply, I ended up in detention for three months for getting caught, inebriated, no less, but also caught in a precarious position with the Potion's professor's Ficus in his office." Dumbledore chuckled. "Do not look so shocked, Harry! It is normal for boys to, erm, for lack of better words— much less of a descriptive nature, Heaven forbid— _experiment _with inanimate objects.

Anyway, moving on . . . . You do not recall much of anything, do you?"

Harry began, his throat dry and voice hoarse, "Well, last I remember, I was dueling Voldemort and he used the killing curse, which didn't really work— "

Snape slapped him. Dumbledore and Harry looked at him in shock. "Severus, I do not think that was necessary." He turned back to Harry, and explained. "You see, Harry, Severus has mood-swings, having had his voice box cut out and nearly raped-to-death by Tom and his . . . _snake_," he noticed Harry's face, full of confusion, and then continued, "Well, anyway, he has some very nice medication for schizophrenia and . . . _other _problems." Snape was fixing them with a really nasty look at this point, and then gestured at Dumbledore to 'Just get on with it already'.

Dumbledore, at this point, was now smoking a cigarette filter, and did not seem to notice, nor, Harry suspected, did he care. "So, we can conclude that what you remember is something completely and so very far from the truth neither of us actually knows what the other is talking about." At this point, Dumbledore eyed the pathetic stub clutched between his shriveled fingers and threw the butt somewhere in a general-left-direction. "I would like you, Harry, to forget everything you know." He gestured vaguely at Snape, who stood up and straightened his jacket. Just as Snape made to puch the wheelchair-confined old-timer from the room, Dumbledore said very strenly, "Forget everything that you know becasue for the next month I will tell you everything that did happen while you were gone from this world, so to speak."

"What do you mean?"

Exasperated, Dumbledore said, smacking Snape's hands away from the wheelchair to fix his gaze on Harry, "Everything from your ninth birthday to now, you have imagined."

And with that, the heavy door shut with a resounding bang as the two vacated quickly, (because visiting hours were over), and Harry Potter fainted.


	2. It's A Drug War Not A Blood War

Disclaimer - I don't (nor would I want to, as I think I've already established previously) own Harry Potter or any of the plot-holes or crack-pot ideas/theories that are cliche in every possible shade and shape in this damn series.

Note - The librarian at my school probably already knows half the ideas featured in this story, having caught my friends and I discussing fanfiction stories (that aren't and never were ours) which depict Hermione or Lupin (or all characters at the same time) or any number of characters doing... _things_... in broom cupboards that we changed to involve gang-bangs with Albus Dumbledore and any number of odd farm animals on his office floor.

But I'm rambling.

Chapter Two

It's A Drug-War, Not A Blood-War

Day Two

(Part I)

The clock read 11:56.

"I think, Harry, that the best place to start is from the very beginning." Dumbledore lit what was now his third cigarette in the past hour and regarded Harry with a weary look. "The day your parents left you."

Harry was listening intently, the drowsiness from all the medications and painkillers he was on fading quickly as interest surged in his mind. He still had nagging thoughts in the back of his mind, his doubts that this was real seeming to echo the loudest in his head. His emotions as well were no longer decipherable, it seemed, because there was so much confusion mingled with anger, hurt, joy (that the wizard before him was very much alive), and frustration and fear (because Voldemort was still out there doing God-knows-what to God-knows-who).

He shut it all away and chose to merely listen, because he trusted Dumbledore. (And on the plus side, if it was an illusion, it was a pleasant, albeit confusing, one.)

Dumbledore flicked ashes at Harry as he pointed a long finger at him, "Now I want you to listen very carefully Harry, God knows I do not want to repeat this again." He took a deep breath as Harry focused on his words. "Your mother and father were not respectable members of the community, though they were, on our terms, very respectable. You see, Harry, you should know this by now. People who are involved in any sort of questionable business, people who have big houses yet are always home, who have big shiny cars in their driveways and come out in silk bathrobes to beat their maid to get the paper . . . they are always alienated. It is this prejudice that led Tom to do what he did." He looked away for a moment, shaking his head, as if to abolish a horrible thought. But then he said, casually and offhandedly as if merely mentioning the weather, "That and the fact that he had AIDS." He looked pointedly at Harry. "He got it from your father. Of course, he hadn't any idea, and neither did any of us, for that matter, until after the autopsy. Alas, your mother, nor you, had AIDS or HIV, which is good, in some ways. Your whore of a mother— " Harry opened his mouth to say something, glaring fiercely at the old man, but he seemed oblivious to Harry's reaction and merely ploughed onward with his monologue. "— well, I suspect she slept with the mailman, which explains your predicament (meaning your looks and brains, dear boy, do not give me that confused look!). Your father was a handsome fellow, and he used it to his advantage, unlike Sirius Black who I suspect could have been even greater, if possible, than your father was at the sport. But that's how he did his business, your father."

Dumbledore sighed and stared into space pensively for a moment and Harry was utterly speechless, could not come up with anything useful to say, (and who could, anyway?), and therefore waited for the old man to continue. "He was the best piece of ass in all of England, I must say. And he was an invaluable asset to the Order for that very reason. He aided our side in drug deals, Harry." He finally noticed Harry's facial expression and supplied a vague explanation. "This entire war between our side and Tom's side . . . well, it isn't so much a blood war as it is a _drug war_. I am a drug lord, as is Tom. I will explain more of that later, as we need to stick to the subject we are on. One step at a time." He waved his hand, flinging ashes every which way.

"Well, moving on. Your father— I suspect he slept with seventy-five percent of the entire population of Colombia. I must say, it really did rake in profits for our side! Every single person he met loved him, as much as any man or woman can love a crack-whore, that is.

"But the downside to being a whore, tragically, is that you contract sexually transmitted viruses— or diseases— whatever they're calling it these days. And as part of a deal gone wrong, you might say, your father slept with Tom." Harry had the distinct urge to go and vomit somewhere, his stomach churning uncomfortably, but it was over-ridden by confusion and complete, utter and sincere shock.

This was simply not true! It had to be a dream, he thought desperately. If only.

But how in the hell could he have gone from the childish conception that this was a Wizarding World, and somehow arrived in a harsh reality filled with illegal drugs, sexual promiscuity, vulgarity, disease, death and . . . everything else that reality usually has?

According to Dumbledore, the wisest man he had ever known in his life (and who now he was thoroughly convinced he would never trust again, not even with a baked muffin, God forbid) was insisting that his perception of the world was greatly altered due to excessive drug abuse, sex and other unmentionables. As well as the fact that Dumbledore alluded to the fact that he was also ugly and stupid due to some midnight rendezvous between his mother and the mailman.

Why, it was all so confusing!

He should kill himself.

Dumbledore reached into his pocket and pulled out what Harry recognized as a Lemon Drop. He popped it into his mouth and stared back at Harry with a dreamy expression on his face. He blurted, (because it was the only thing he could think of to say, if anything, just to assure the old man he was still breathing), "Can I, if you have another, that is— can I have a Lemon Drop, sir?"

He fixed the raven-haired boy with a look of bewilderment, and then grimaced, "My dear boy, I haven't the faintest clue what you're going on about. If a Lemon Drop is what the youths call Acid these days, then no— you're in rehab. And if I get caught— God knows— they may be tempted to shave off my beard, and everyone knows that my beard is what brings me my notability. Gets me into fancy night clubs in downtown London, you know!"

Harry's face flushed and he stared at the blankets for a moment. He pondered everything Dumbledore had said, sifted through the niggling doubts and the enormous confusion.

But, alas, in the end, he ended up more confused than he was before.

"Anyway, we must continue, Harry, so I can fit the entire story in by leaving time tonight. Oh, and Alastor may be coming by."

"Moody?"

"Yeah, yeah, the crippled bloke that's falling apart in every possible place at the most inopportune moments."

Harry stared. Dumbledore continued, once again, oblivious, and looking suddenly sorrowful. "Tom sought his revenge, taking it out on your family, Harry. You see, the AIDS was overcoming him very quickly, hence his . . . appearance. He was jealous— your father was fighting the disease, overcoming it easily— or, at least, easier than Tom was. You know the disease is not curable, however, and it is very sad. Part of the reason Tom never recovered was due to the insurmountable amounts of sexually transmitted diseases he contracted over the years, some of them unknown to man, I'm quite certain.

"Well, he went after your father with a hoe. Your father— poor bloke— he never had a chance. As he ran from the kitchen to the laundry room, Tom got him with the ironing board." Dumbledore's face was now the picture of grave loss, and he was unable to meet Harry's gaze for a moment. His voice wavered with sadness as he went on. "Your mother, Lily, was even less fortunate. Tom pursued her with said-iron, as well as a steak-knife, finally subduing her with an oddly positioned and overly-watered Ficus in your bedroom. He cut out their adrenal glands with the steak-knife.

"I regret, every single day of my life, Harry, for not having been able to arrive sooner. Because when I did arrive, your mother left a trail of blood from your bedroom to the garage. She bled to death underneath your father's Cadillac. As the garage door opened, I caught sight of you wrapped up in a shower curtain and in a trash can as Tom loomed over you with a bloodied steak-knife.

"Once he caught sight of me watching him as he sucked like some sex-deprived vampire on your parents newly-hunted-and-cut adrenal glands, he took off through the shrubbery." Dumbledore thoughtfully added, "I believe Tom spent the night in a doghouse in one of your neighbor's yards but, alas, I cannot be certain. He's very stealthy, you know."

Harry, the sensations of this news overwhelming him (as well as the side-effects of the current medication he was on), promptly fainted once again.

(Part II)

Blearily, Harry made out the clock in the corner of the room. It was nearly four hours since he had blacked out, and he heard murmuring voices from near the bed.

"He does seem to have taken this news hard," someone growled.

"Ah, it seems so, Alastor, but I believe Harry will pull through and learn to accept his new life as it is without suffering any drastic mental scarring."

"I hope you're right, Albus. He's got the same potential for crack-dealing and— "

Harry groaned and the whispers ceased. Something old and shriveled touched his arm and he briefly felt the need to either vomit or beat whatever was touching him.

"It's alright, Harry. Alastor has come by to make note of your progress."

"That and I brought pornography you might be interested in duplicating, Albus." Harry's vision cleared and he was met by Mad-Eye Moody's grizzled appearance, and, quite shockingly, his leering and scarred face. "Afternoon, Potter." He nodded, and winked.

"Pornogr— "

"Aye," Moody growled, glass eye solitary and quite unmoving. "Lupin and Tonks seem to have enough talent in that area to rake in the cash. I reckon I'll get more than I deserve off of Ebay when I put it up for auction. Aye, it's very good. At one point I remember thinking the counter might break under their exuberance, and thinking that's all I needed— my assistant with the audio equipment to be killed, unseen in the cupboard across from mine. Of course, _I_ was doing the actual filming."

"So, being caught once already puts you off in no manner whatsoever?" Dumbledore inquired.

"No, the profits are too great to let a mere body appendage get in the way." Moody insisted and grimaced, raising his left hand, which had been replaced by a gleaming silver hook.

Dumbledore eyed Harry with amusement and then explained, "Alastor here was caught by our dear friend Nymphadora and— "

"Bitch got me arm," Moody growled bitterly. "Seems to me she overreacted. Not my fault Mundungus— that's my assistant— nearly impaled Lupin with the audio equipment. Last time I let him come to the job inebriated." He held up his hook. "Well, as you can see, she grabbed the sharpest thing within reach, which just so happened to be a meat cleaver, and, well, chopped it off and chucked it out the nearest open window. Never found me hand, as you can well guess, Potter."

"But— they were— _you know_?" The two men nodded with mischievous grins. Harry continued, "But why would a meat cleaver be in their bedroom?"

"The bedroom ain't the only place they do it," Moody growled with a smirk. "Of course, caught up in 'doing the dishes', as they so call it now, they never notice Mundungus and I in the broom cupboard or pantry or whichever room we decide to stake-out. Caught quite unawares— leaves more to be filmed, and the audio is exceptional— what with their howling and everything."

Harry was feeling rather dizzy, not to mention filthy.

Clearly he was mistaken. All his innocent friends, all these people he considered honest and good were really crack-dealing, drug-addicted, nymphomaniacs.

Oh, God, he really should look for something to kill himself with.

But instead he merely sat there and waited for someone else to say something because he really could not think of any possible response to that, nor anything else, that these men seemed to have told him or would tell him.

Dumbledore folded his hands across his lap, his pointy elbows touching the wheelchairs armrests as he observed Harry. Moody took out a flask and drank from it. "Ah, nothing like a nice shot 'o scotch to ease the nerves, eh, Potter?" He winked.

Moody was, he had a feeling, an alcoholic, judging by the way Dumbledore seemed to take that comment with a casual ease Harry could not— and probably never would— be able to.

"Now, then, Harry. Last we discussed, your parents had been killed by Tom. Is there anything you would like to ask me regarding this that I might have missed or you might not be clear on?"

"No, sir, I think I got it all." Harry said this quite dryly, his stare vacant and quite shocked as he took into account everything he had been informed of in the past twenty-four hours.

"Good. Very well then. Now we get to the wretchedly boring part in which I escort you to the Dursley's house." He paused and lit a cigarette. Moody was sitting in the same chair Snape had sat in the day before. He was drinking heartily from his flask of scotch, going completely unnoticed by Dumbledore. The old man continued. "Well, shower-curtain-clad, and also slightly overweight for a chid of your proportions, well, I had a difficult time carrying you— "

"Sure that wasn't the crack, Albus?" Moody sniggered, taking another gulp of scotch.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Hardly." He turned back to Harry. "I must say, I found it quite unnerving that your relatives lived in a ghetto in which all the houses seemed reminiscent of shacks. And at night— the entire place seemed impossible to navigate!

"So, as you can only imagine, I got off on the wrong start and broke into some houses that weren't anywhere near your relatives' place. Only when that bald man came down did I realize that I had to quickly procure you from the settee (and nick a bottle of mead from the celler). Alas, if he had not come down I cannot be sure of what would have happened had I left you there. He was in the nude and oh-so-hairy at the time— "

Harry's face immediately contorted into one of ghastly horror, but the old man continued onward.

"Finally, I picked the lock to your relatives' house and let myself in. I think I procured one too many wine bottles from the cellar, which ended up empty all too soon, and that was why I did not remember where I put you.

"Needless to say, by the time I remembered that I had placed you in the cupboard under the stairs, you were already nine years old. I haven't the faintest clue if the Dursleys ever found out of your whereabouts but I am suspect to belie they did not. That is, if your lack of taste is any indication, because I assume the only way you survived in that damp and dingy little moth-infested closet was by ingesting insects and sucking moisture in through the floorboards."

Harry's mouth was a gaping O of horror, and his eyes were undoubtably as wide as dinner plates.

But then Moody slumped backward in his chair and began snoring and suddenly he was feeling more exhausted and more sick than he had ever remembered feeling before.

(Part III)

It was nearly an hour before visiting hours were over that Harry awoke. Moody seemed to have gone, but Dumbledore was still sitting in his wheelchair, humming something that sounded vaguely familiar. He noticed Harry's peering green eyes and turned to him with a sympathetic smile.

"I hope you are well-rested, Harry, and that you can fight off sleep if only for the next hour so I can say just one more thing before Severus comes by in his sleek Ferrari to pick me up." Dumbledore popped another candy, or drug— Harry was not certain, and could not be at this point. The old man cleared his throat and surveyed Harry from behind his half-moon spectacles as he began. "Now, I mentioned earlier that I would, indeed, reveal how this entire ordeal began. The drug-war, that is.

"Tom, you will not believe, was on our side at the beginning. But he soon tired of being employed by me. You see, Harry, Tom insisted I give him half my profits, for what reason, I do not know. He was on ecstasy at the time, so I can only assume it altered his perception of reality." He paused. "That's where you and Tom seem to be matched— your extreme resistance to drugs, to the extent you both need inhuman, often extremely toxic, doses to get you somewhere. Nobody before you, Harry, has ever survived with such high levels of toxins in their system."

Harry blurted, "But I thought— my scar, my lightning-bolt scar— didn't Voldemort— I mean, Tom— didn't he cast the Avada Kedavra and give me that?"

"Goodness, no! Dear God, you were high, boy, do not believe everything you see!" Dumbledore frowned, and then added with an air of admitting something unpleasant, "Alright, when I was carrying you down Privet Drive, Minerva came by on her Goddamn bicycle with her ridiculous-looking glow-sticks, and smelling suspiciously of alcohol and mowed us down. I have tire prints on my arse to prove it, however, you were lucky and merely suffered a . . . peculiar-looking scar."

"Oh," was all Harry could say.

"But anyway, after Tom insisted I split the profits, I relieved him of his duties. He was not pleased. He sought revenge, as he had years later on your father, as he still does to all the people who seem to be better than him— which, as of now, is most likely everyone. He created his own business dealing drugs. He started advertising to my clients, giving them better rates, special offers, and anything at all to hurt me. And, well, to tell you the truth, I was angered by it all, that the back-stabbing bastard did it. I was losing clients, profits were falling, and I was going into debt. I had to do something.

"So, we formed the Order of the Phoenix. Mundungus Fletcher was able to assist us by obtaining very illegal and very powerful firearms. Sirius helped him with that, mostly the smuggling though. He always did have a way with shoving weapons down his pants . . . . Lupin, poor bloke, was completely high and went into fits once or twice a month in which he became homicidal and tried to gnaw off anyone's limbs within a 5-mile radius. So, we had to lock him in the cellar every once in a while. He had no recollection of what happened.

"Then there was your father. Finest damn whore I've seen walk a city block! What I wouldn't give for one more go round London with him!" Harry blanched, more so than before. "And your mother, well, she was just there because we were using her for the sex. And Moody, of course, he had his ways with his camera. We were able to get him to obtain incriminating video evidence of Tom's little quirks involving strapless numbers and sexual pop lyrics.

"In retaliation, Tom caught me in a compromising position with some local farm animals, and well, it all went to hell from there.

"We have the numbers, those who died, shot in the occasional scuffle in a back alleyway involving hookers and the police. And then those who OD'd or very nearly did, like Frank and Alice Longbottom, forever vegetables due to obsessive and reckless drug use. It's all in the history books Harry and I'd hate to bore you with the figures, plus Severus is here and looking very nice in his leather jacket, so I am afraid that is all I have to reveal today.

"Good-day to you Harry and I will see you very near in the future." Snape strutted into the room donning a pair of sunglasses and a silk scarf. He wheeled Dumbledore away without a single word, or a single look at Harry.

Harry, meanwhile, was contemplating on whether or not to just kill himself or wait and see if the story got any better (as if there's any hope for that happening).

- - - - - - -

Oh yeah, and because of the mentioning of certain diseases and addictions, if I, somehow (though, really, due to my social ineptitude, I don't see how I did) insulted you or loved ones, then I'm sorry. I swear to God all blame lies with those other people in my head, not I, for you see, those tiny figures skating round my mind are terribly impulsive and seem to dictate my movements, decisions and colors sometimes (and yes, I thoroughly believe I can change color). And, later on, just to be fair, or maybe in this chapter even, I might make fun of myself (because I do that often, because it's fun to be all dramatic and scatter-brained). Although, I assumed by writing this I was, in a way, making fun of myself for having such a psychotic, perverted, and very, very, polluted thought-pattern (which isn't good anyway so you should all be happy you don't have this affliction).

And if you bitch about it, just to warn you— the only thing you'll be getting out of that is a load of confusion due to the ludicrous statements I will undoubtably be spitting at you.

Good-day to you all. Review or flames or even just rants are welcome (God knows everyone needs to rant a little bit, aye?)


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